


Congratulations

by Amber



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - Palahniuk
Genre: Apocalypse, F/M, Fisting, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler once explained to me about hitting bottom, but I didn't understand. "It's only after you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything," he'd said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congratulations

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompts 'post-apocalypse, mind-blowing, closer.'

If you ask most people when the world ended, they'll look back over the last five years and tell you it started with the destruction of the credit card companies.

At least, if you ask your average Joe Westerner, that's what they say. You ask some kid in Saudi Arabia, or grab a guy off the street in Japan, they're gonna tell you about the burning of the oil refineries, when the smoke didn't clear for days. So much for manageable greenhouse emissions, right?

The politicians, they call a time as late as the Great Blackout, capital cities all over the globe winking out one by one. That was when the media started calling it World War III. That was when the Ministry of Defence started pushing the harsher anti-terrorist bills, when the drone of military aircraft overhead became a common occurrence.

The second World War, now that cost us almost three hundred billion dollars. Most of that was never real cash, just invisible money, numbers on a page belonging to the government and given to the people who gave it back to the government. Circle of capitalism. The more you know, right? But Tyler's war, Tyler's war cost us more than numbers. More than the body-count. Tyler once explained to me about hitting bottom, but I didn't understand. "It's only after you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything," he'd said.

A member of the force once known as Project Mayhem, now you ask him, he'll smile a split-lipped smile and say the end of the world? Was much earlier than you might think. Maybe he'll give you a date or two, little acts of terrorism that were like harbingers of the coming apocalypse. We were the plague of locusts. We were the rivers of blood.

None of them would be right.

Marla and I argue sometimes, about this exact question, about the beginning of the end. Marla, she'd bought shares in bottled water way back when this was just beginning. Marla, she had a secret stash of cigarettes and batteries for her vibrator. Marla, she hadn't tried to kill herself since the first time she called me, but she's taken to following me around ever since she got out of the hospital and that's the same impulse at work. Marla, she says the apocalypse started the day I was born.

Sometimes we run into a bit of a problem, Marla and I.

"You pussy," Marla says, with three fingers in my ass. "You great big baby, it's not like we've never done this before."

I want to protest that I wasn't conscious at the time, that it didn't count, that I'd been undergoing severe Dissociative Identity Disorder, that I wasn't sure I was ready for fist play without the buffer of my alternate personality, that the low pressure of our solar-powered shower meant I wasn't entirely sure how sanitary I was down there. Instead I just strangle out a groan.

"I screwed a doctor I met at one of those meetings," Marla says in her chain-smoker's rasp. "You know, a while back. A urologist. He taught me this neat trick."

This woman is playing me like a piano. My chest constricts — I feel like I'm about to have a panic attack. A panic attack of pleasure. I convulse a little. Jesus Christ, Marla. Do that again. I can feel my asshole stretching around her fingers, kind of a good slow burn, and with one finger she massages my prostate from the inside and with her thumb she presses it from the outside and the whole thing goes straight to my cock and right out to the tips of my fingers and toes.

"Apparently guys can come from just this," she tells me, all matter-of-fact but leaning in, so her nipples brush against my thigh.

Really, Marla? You don't say? My voice is about an octave higher than it should be. But not as high as it could go. This one chick I slept with, she once asked me if I'd ever taken singing lessons.

Marla drips more of the lube all over her hand and my testicles, which are already tight, and slides another finger in. "So the good news is, you're cancer-free," she tells me seriously. Her fingers are pumping slickly, and I clench my toes, whimper a little. "D'you think I could get my whole fist in there?"

The sick thing is, I'm pretty sure she learned how to do this from Tyler.

Sometimes it's a little intimidating. Later, when I'm eating her out in an attempt at revenge and she's bucking up onto my face, I get a little bit of performance anxiety, thinking about how I compared to Tyler, if he'd licked in the same way or if he'd done it better, fucked her with his tongue and fingers, if he was quicker to make her scream. Sometimes I try and think back, but the memories are blurry, as though the torn pieces of Tyler's memories in my head have overlaid my memories, or the memories I created, and now both sets are lost.

Tyler once explained to me about hitting bottom, but I didn't understand. "It's only after you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything," he'd said. It was only after I'd lost Tyler that I'd realized that was true.

"You know, I think I injured my wrist." Marla flexes it experimentally. "Next time, we're using my dildo."

So if you ask me when the world ended, I'll look back over the last five years and tell you it started with the destruction of the credit card companies, waking up in a hospital with a Glasgow grin and finding I was only myself, nothing more, nothing less. Or maybe sitting on a filthy mattress with Marla, finally letting that be okay.

"No bullshit," Marla says over post-coital cigarettes. "But your scars feel kind of good, you know? Rough."

No bullshit?

"No bullshit." She kisses my cheek. The smoke makes my eyes water. I wonder how much further down I have to go.


End file.
